


Ecouteurism

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, John Talks Dirty, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play, Overhearing Sex, POV Greg, Public Sex, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Talks Dirty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 12:45:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10697295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Greg accidentally overhears John and Sherlock having sex - and he likes it very much. More stuff happens but I can't tell you, because, well, spoilers...





	Ecouteurism

**Author's Note:**

> A perfect storm of an excellent prompt, then a sequel to that prompt, and two hours of frantic writing resulted in this story.
> 
> Immense gratitude to hqtwoface for giving me this wonderful prompt.

Greg yawned widely, his jaw cracking in the silence of his office. He’d drifted off there for a few moments, the first sleep that had come his way in days. Jameson, the bastard, was still out there, and even Sherlock was having trouble finding him. Greg had pointedly taken out his iPod and started listening to music to better ignore the abuse Sherlock was hurling at the world in general. Given the frustration Sherlock had been expressing, it didn’t surprise Greg that John had probably taken him somewhere to calm down, or relax or something.

He glanced over the intricate web Sherlock had created on one wall, the papers strewn around his desk, and sighed. It had been better when he could just give Sherlock copies of the case files and let him go at it, allowing him the satisfaction of sweeping triumphantly into NSY, smug grin on his face and blogger trailing amusedly behind. Then at least, it wouldn’t be up to Greg to clean up the mess – but the new Super wasn’t having any of that, insisting that Sherlock come to them if he wanted in on active cases. Greg shifted the papers closest to him, looking for his mobile, then gave up as a pile cascaded to the floor. The movement had made him realise his bladder was screaming, and he stood, back cracking as he stretched out the kinks of sleeping in his chair. His iPod slid out of lap and he tucked it in his pocket absentmindedly.

Wandering blearily down the hall, Greg wondered what time it actually was – most of the office was silent and still, and the inky sky showed no sign of lightening into morning. Too bloody late to be here, he grumbled, knocking his shoulder against the doorjamb as he miscalculated his turn to enter the men’s room. Shuffling across the floor Greg entered the empty cubicle and sat, too tired to stand at the urinal. Bladder finally empty, Greg’s brain focussed on the rhythmic sound he now realised was coming from the next stall. Too tired to really notice before, he now cocked his head, trying to figure out what on earth it was.

When realisation came to him, Greg flushed, his face burning. There were two sets of sounds combining into one arrangement – two sets of heavy breathing, two tones of whispered words, two pitches of moans. He’d been quiet, entering the bathroom, and the pair beside him clearly had no idea there was someone else in there with them. Well this was awkward as hell, he thought, shifting uncomfortably. Now that he’d realised what it was, his brain automatically figured out the who – clearly, the deeper voice was Sherlock, the tenor belonging to John; whatever it was they were doing it was clearly pleasurable, and that left Greg with a problem. Well, that depended on your point of view, though his rapidly thickening cock and pounding heart were not all that convenient. Since the police academy, where ‘see nothing, hear nothing’ was the unspoken rule among the recruits, Greg had known he got off on hearing other people shagging. He didn’t try and sugar coat it, even to himself – skin slapping on skin, half strangled gasps, whispered filth – all of that made him harder than the Sergeant’s exam. Especially when they didn’t know he was listening, and especially _especially_ when it was in public. So here and now, in the hush of a police station, sitting in the bathroom listening to two people he knew well getting each other off was fairly close to his holy grail. Greg stood up and leaned against the far wall, wondering what the best plan of action was.

Now that he was paying attention, the harsh tile of the bathroom allowed the sound to flood around Greg, electrifying his skin and making it impossible for him to consider leaving. Not that he wanted to, really. Images were invading his mind now, borne of the erotic sounds he couldn’t help taking in. John on his knees, Sherlock’s cock halfway down his throat. Sherlock’s hand in John’s unzipped pants, grinding his hips into the small of John’s back as they pressed against the door. John’s fingers pressing into Sherlock, fingertips brushing his prostate as John kissed along his hipbone…

Without realising it, Greg has taken his cock in hand, squeezing its hard length, pulling back the foreskin and running his fingertips over the head. It jumps in his hand as Sherlock’s voice echoes off the tiles.

“Christ, John, I’m not a fucking piece of china!”

Greg froze, wondering what was going on.

“Shut up, Sherlock!” John hissed.

Sherlock scoffed in frustrated reply, “Oh, who’s going to hear us? Not that it matters, isn’t the point of this to get me off? Well I can’t do that right now without your fingers inside me, John!”

Greg nearly fell over at such an explicit statement from Sherlock. Not that he’d been unaware of their sexual relationship, but the exact nature of their interactions was not something he’d spent a lot of time thinking about.

“Jesus, will you keep it down?” John muttered, and there was a fumbling of fabric and bodies shifting in a confined space. Greg’s hand resumed its stroking, twisting along his length. His other hand had slid up under his shirt, and he teased himself, tugging on the ring still piercing his right nipple. A remnant of a misspent youth, some people thought, though it was more like ‘a direct line to his cock’. Greg twisted the ring, enjoying the stretching of his skin, the pulling on his nipple. He felt the sensation in his groin, as he always did, and stifled his own groan as he heard the baritone of Sherlock coming from half a metre to his right.

“Joooooohn…” The panting from that double-occupancy stall was increasing, and the whispered encouragement from John was now louder, allowing Greg to hear his words clearly.

“God yes, Sherlock, that’s two fingers now…can you feel my knuckles pushing into you, stretching you open…this is where my cock will be, but not yet, not until you’ve solved this one...you know the rules…my tongue will lick you all over, tasting all the flavours you’ve picked up along the way, all the way to here…”

Fuck, thought Greg, as his own hand flew faster, this was unbelievable. Clearly Sherlock had an aural kink, too, and Greg was benefiting from it in spades. Sherlock’s deep moans, mainly John’s name and ‘yes’, were the underscore to John’s relentless monologue. Greg’s mind envisioned the pair, wondering how Sherlock was standing, if John had his own cock in hand, or Sherlock’s. He pictured the flush across Sherlock’s pale face, wondering if John liked to see that, see the evidence of his own work. The nipple ring twisted again, pulling against the fragile skin, causing Greg to swallow his own groan. John’s litany had sped up now, the groans and pants from Sherlock faster and less in control; Greg could hear him getting closer, and his own balls were starting to draw in, preparing for his own inevitable release.

“…I can feel you clenching around me, Sherlock, you’re getting close now, so close…so beautiful…come on, fuck that hand, move faster, feel my fingers inside you…I’m part of you, Sherlock, part of who you are, never going to let go…come for me now, please, come hard all over that wall…”

This last part allowed Greg’s brain to crystalize the image of John standing aside Sherlock, fingers inside him as his long pale fingers worked over his cock, ready to spurt his seed all over the shared wall of the cubicle; John’s eyes roving Sherlock’s face, greedily taking in all the details of his arousal; his face close to Sherlock’s speaking quietly and encouraging him to let go. The image spiked Greg’s arousal, sending him head first into orgasm. It was hard and fast and he himself sprayed the door of his cubicle with white stripes; fortunately the wail of release from next door covered any sound he might have made. Greg gasped as silently as possible, the after-tremors wracking his body. In no fantasy had he ever imagined anything so explicit, and he wished he’d learned the mind palace thing when Sherlock had offered, so he could keep this memory forever. Truly, though, it was unlikely he would ever forget.

From the noises he could hear now, Greg realised the couple had finished their tryst. What if they came out, saw the closed door and waited to see who came out? It would be evident he’d heard them, and all sorts of weirdness would surely happen. With a burst of inspiration, Greg took out his iPod and shoved the earbuds in his ears, pressing play on whatever was up next. Plausible deniability, he thought to himself as he quietly cleaned up the mess on the door. Taking a deep breath, he flushed the toilet and let himself out, making sure he walked at a normal pace, washed his hands and even managing to hum as he walked out the door. Neither John nor Sherlock had emerged while he did, but he kept his iPod in as he wandered to the coffeepot, making a new pot and coaching himself – it was like being undercover, pretending he didn’t know things he did. Normal, that’s what he had to aim for.

The fact that he jumped a mile when John dropped on hand on his shoulder certainly helped, as did the spilled coffee soaking his shirt and ruining his iPod. The slight scuffle to get himself out of the scalding coffee-soaked shirt, and assuring John the iPod could be replaced covered any awkwardness, Greg hoped, though Sherlock stood by (not helping of course), looking suspiciously at Greg. Eventually they went back to work, Greg relieved that neither John nor Sherlock had said anything about the interlude in the bathroom.

+++

“Just get in, Sherlock!” John said, exasperatedly. They’d finally found Jameson, and the three of them had chased him across half of London and all the way to Cambridge, where Sherlock had jumped into the river to rescue the hostage Jameson’d thrown in as a distraction. The local police had taken Jameson in, paramedics dealing with the hostage for the time being. That left Greg, John and Sherlock standing by a single police car, arguing about whether Sherlock and John would catch a cab back to London or just get into the police car with Greg and the driver, a young quiet constable. John, who could see how cold Sherlock was getting, had sided with Greg, and now a grumbling, shivering detective was being summarily manhandled into the backseat of a marked police car for the drive back to London. The constable taking the wheel was young and had barely spoken a word at the scene; now Greg just twisted in his seat to look at the pair in the backseat.

“At least it’s not Sally driving,” Greg said, “she’d never let you hear the end of it.”

Sherlock grunted, shifting closer to John and wrapping the orange blanket more closely around him. The Belstaff, his jacket and shirt were bundled up in a soaking pile in the boot of the car; he had John’s jacket around his shoulders along with the shock blanket but it was clearly not enough to keep him warm. Greg ignored the ‘more than friends’ looks the two were shooting each other, plus the fact that they were sitting so close in the wide backseat. It wasn’t his place to out anybody; he didn’t care as long as it didn’t interfere with a case.

“I’m cold, John.” Sherlock whined, and Greg rolled his eyes. It was another hour and a half back to London, the last thing he needed was to regret this trip before it had even started.

“I know, there’s not much I can do about it right now.” John told him, though his tone was comforting. They lapsed into silence, until John said, “So, the case is over now, do you think you’ll get Jameson to court, or will he go straight to Broadmoor?”

“He’s for Broadmoor,” Greg answered immediately, “no way he’s sane enough to stand trial.”

John hummed a response.

“What do you think, Sherlock?” Greg asked, hoping to draw some conversation out of the sulking detective.

“About what, Gavin?” Sherlock asked, stressing the deliberately incorrect name.

“Never mind.” Greg muttered, then added, “I guess you two’ll be glad to get home and relax now that the case is over.” He spoke without thinking, though the new context of the term ‘relaxing after a case’ made his face feel warmer.

There was no response for a beat, then Sherlock spoke, a new tone to his voice. “Yes, I imagine we will.”

Greg turned back to the front, checking his watch. Another forty minutes to London. He looked out of the window, until the sound of whispering from the backseat caught his attention.

“No Sherlock.” John’s voice was quiet, and the insistent murmurs from Sherlock continued until John sighed in a way that even Greg recognised as him giving in. It was quiet again, until Sherlock’s voice again sounded, sotto voce. Greg heard the fumbling of fabric and bodies shifting in a confined space. No way, he thought, they’re not…

“Mmmm…” Sherlock purred, “good…”

Bloody hell, Greg thought to himself, not again. He glanced at the constable, who was watching the road and appeared to be completely oblivious to what Greg was fairly sure was happening in the back seat of his police car. Shifting his weight, Greg reached forward and subtly adjusted the rear view camera screen that was discretely placed under the dash. The camera directed into the back seat was a new safety precaution, but in this instance it allowed him to see what was happening without turning around. The second he glanced down, Greg froze. Sherlock was looking directly into the camera, a wide smirk on his face; John’s head was turned towards Sherlock, his eyes closed. Clearly, Greg thought, Sherlock knew about the new security measures. He wondered if John did as he noticed Sherlock’s hand at John’s groin, pressing rhythmically against the bulge there. Greg could see John’s hips shifting, pushing up into the pressure as Sherlock moved.

Sherlock’s voice was a fairly consistent stream now; it appeared the aural kink ran both ways. John’s hands were gripping Sherlock’s knee on one side and the seat on the other; Sherlock’s long arms were embracing John, one hand now undoing his pants, the other wrapping right around him, fingers splayed against his ribs. Freeing John’s cock, Sherlock’s hand started working over it, the smirk increasing as he squeezed its hard length, pulling back the foreskin and running his fingertips over the head. Greg’s mouth dropped open a little at the familiar actions, and he swallowed hard. Belatedly, his ears tuned into Sherlock’s words.

“Something different, since we are here, John…something new…better hope Giles doesn’t hear us…my fingertips running over the smooth head of your cock, smearing it around…now I’m squeezing you, feel the pressure of my fingers along your hard length, and you’re so hard, John, do you think Gilbert would be hard if he would hear us…”

Greg shifted his weight uncomfortably, knowing the back of his neck was red, but unable to look away from the screen or tune out from the words clearly intended for an audience of two. On screen, a fuzzy John’s hand scrabbled at his own shirt, tugging it out of his trousers. Greg watched in fascination as Sherlock’s hand drifted upwards, the long fingers tugging on the exposed nipple. His fingers twisted a little and John gasped, hips bucking. Greg had to make a conscious effort not to imitate the motion. His own hand burned to open his flies and take his cock in hand, copying Sherlock’s actions as he was copying Greg from earlier. As if the scene yesterday hadn’t been arousing enough, now he was listening to Sherlock touch John in the way Greg had been touching himself, as he listened to John touch Sherlock. Fuck me, Greg thought dazedly, I might have accidentally walked into a dirty movie here. A phrase caught his ear, bringing him back to the present.

“…pierced nipple…I could tug on that instead. You’d feel the sensation right down here..” John moaned, “like a string connecting it to your cock. A red hot shaft of pleasure, making your cock jump…I could tug, and twist and pull, and it would be red and swollen for hours.” Sherlock looked pointedly at the camera as he said this, and Greg’s sluggish mind worked for a moment before realising Sherlock had seen his chest when he’d taken off his shirt after the spilled coffee. As he watched, Sherlock’s hand started pumping over John’s cock, his hand pulling on that right nipple, just as Greg had done. His voice did not stop, detailing what he and John would do when they reached Baker Street, amongst sly references to Greg’s presence and possible awareness of their activity. Clearly the sound of Sherlock’s voice had the same effect on John as on Greg, because it wasn’t long before John’s breath was stuttering and Sherlock’s hand was using the shock blanket to catch his release. Greg’s own body, turned on beyond belief, actually followed suit, the Detective Inspector coming in his pants like a teenager, untouched and red-faced. A few moments of quiet later, bodies shifted and fabric slid back to a semblance of normality. Greg daren’t move, knowing his pants would be sticky and uncomfortable regardless.

Finally, they reached Baker Street, John and Sherlock scrambling out of the car. John and the constable collected Sherlock’s wet things from the boot as Sherlock spoke to Greg.

“Thanks for the lift, Giovanni. Most enjoyable.” He said pointedly.

Greg nodded. “Anytime.” He replied, not backing down from the double entendre.

“I will keep that in mind,” Sherlock said, his eyes speculative.

“Maybe next time wait ‘til you get home?” Greg couldn’t help but suggesting. “Not exactly private, the men’s room.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “Anyone can just walk in, can’t they?” he looked smug and not at all embarrassed, Greg could see in the dim light.

 “I know how you knew.” Greg blurted, feeling control of the conversation slipping away. “The spilled coffee.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose and he gave a scornful laugh. “About the nipple ring, yes,” He said, “but how did I know how you touch your cock?”

Greg gaped at Sherlock, speechless.

“Do try to use all of your senses next time, Greg.” Sherlock told him. “There’s a hole in that cubicle wall, you know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ecouteurism is characterized by sexual fantasies, urges, or behaviors involving listening to an unknowing and non-consenting person usually engaged in sexual activity, to produce sexual excitement.


End file.
